PROLOGUE

       London March 2007

      Annette Remmington sat at her desk staring across the room at the painting, or rather at the photographic blow-up of the painting. It was propped up on the credenza, leaning against the wall, and the ceiling light, carefully angled, brought it into focus.

      Her marvellous painting. Her masterpiece. Her Rembrandt. Well, not exactly hers any more, for it now belonged to someone else, the anonymous buyer who had bid for it over the phone, won it for the staggering price of twenty million pounds. The highest price ever paid for a work by the famous Dutch artist.

      What would he feel if he were alive? Would he have experienced the same thrill she had at the auction, as the price had risen and risen to that final staggering amount? Rembrandt had become something of a recluse after finishing the painting in 1657, yet it had been in this period that he had created some of his greatest masterpieces; he had been unfashionable then. She smiled inwardly. He was hardly unfashionable now.

      It was gone, hanging on somebody else’s wall, and all she had was the photographic blow-up. Anyway, it had never actually been hers. She had merely been custodian of it for a while. On the other hand, she had brought it back to life – by having it cleaned and restored. And by singing about it; singing its praises to the world. That’s what she thought she had done, anyway. Others said, rather mean-spiritedly, that she had hyped it to death.

      Annette laughed out loud at the thought. No, not death. She had given it a new life. The Rembrandt had not been seen in public for over fifty years, hidden away in the dusty art collection of a man who perhaps no longer appreciated it. And she had put it on view and then sold it for an incredible amount of money and at a time when art prices had dropped.

      Rising, she walked across the room, stood gazing at the photographic blow-up for several minutes, and admiringly so. The portrait was so lifelike, Annette felt that if she reached out to touch the woman’s hand her fingers would alight not on canvas but on real flesh. That was part of Rembrandt’s genius.

      Back at her desk, Annette remembered what her sister had said the other day. Laurie called the Rembrandt the painting that had changed her life, and there was a certain truth in this statement, in that she had suddenly become the new star in the art world. At least for the moment.

      There had been so much publicity about her auction of the Rembrandt it had been extraordinary. Even her husband Marius had been taken aback at the fuss, the attention given to her. He, a seasoned hand in the business, regarded as one of the great art experts and dealers, had been startled by the acclaim she had received.

      Marius had a fine reputation, as did so many other dealers. Yet it was to her that Christopher Delaware had come, seeking her out because he remembered her from a social occasion over a year ago now, when they had discussed art. That long chat had centred on her areas of expertise – Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings and, at the other end of the art spectrum, Old Masters. He had been keen to listen to her, learn from her that evening.

      And so he had arrived at this office one day, many months ago, asking for her help. He had told her about his ancient uncle, a bachelor, who had recently died and left him everything, including an art collection with a Rembrandt in it. Could she, would she, take him on as a client? She had, and the rest was history. The auction had taken place a few nights ago and the art world had collectively gasped when the hammer had come down on the final bid of twenty million pounds. The audience was stunned. So was she.

      Her sister had a favourite saying, which was ‘God protects you', and of course Laurie could not resist saying this when she heard about Christopher Delaware’s first visit to her Bond Street office.

      Recalling that now, Annette smiled faintly. In her mind, it was Marius who protected her. No, perhaps ‘guided her’ was a better phrase to use. The faint smile flickered again. There were those who might say he controlled her, because that was what they believed.

      Annette opened the folder on her desk, and looked at the seating plans for the party tonight. It was her husband’s sixtieth birthday and she had been planning the event for months; it had taken her weeks to seat their guests appropriately, with those she thought they would want to be with, and at the right table. Marius had called it a work of art the other day, when he had gone over it with her for the final check and a few last-minute changes.

      The party was very meaningful to him, and she had done everything she could to make sure it would be special. He had taught her never to leave anything to chance, whatever it was she was planning. She had always listened to him, and learned; and she had left nothing to chance in this instance either. It was being held in the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, and anybody who was anybody had been invited, whether they were from the art world, society or show business. It was an international crowd.

      Because her Rembrandt auction had been such a stupendous success, Marius had insisted that they turn the party into what he called ‘a double-headed event'. It would no longer celebrate only his birthday but the success of her auction as well. It didn’t change anything. The overall plan for the party remained exactly the same, much to Annette’s relief. Except that now he would get up and toast her and tell the world how clever she was.

      Her sudden jump from relative obscurity in the art world to the big league was nothing short of miraculous, and no one was more surprised than she. Marius had taken it in his stride, and when she had said how startled she was by her success, after the auction was over, he had been swift to answer her, exclaiming, ‘But not I. I knew you would do something spectacular one day.’ And then he had suggested they give the party a new twist …

      Her private line rang, and she reached out, picked up the red phone. ‘Hello?’

      ‘Annette, it’s Malcolm. Do you have a minute?’

      ‘Of course I do. Is everything all right?’

      ‘Absolutely. I just wondered if I could go over the birthday toast I’ll be making to Marius tonight? If you could listen now it would be helpful.’

      ‘I can, and I’m sure anything you’ve prepared will be right on the mark.’ She laughed. ‘After all, you’re one of Marius’s favourite protégés, and you own his beloved Remmington Gallery. No one knows him better